


Points Don’t Matter

by Hopetohell



Category: Enola Holmes (2020), Enola Holmes - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:08:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26611957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: Even when you lose, you win. The requisite pool table fic.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Reader, Sherlock Holmes/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 100





	Points Don’t Matter

The baize is scratchy under your ass and your shoulder blades because now is a _spectacularly_ poor time to remember how terrible you are at this game, how easily distracted, and stars above but this man is a _distraction_. His suggestion to pass the time was pool, and every time he sunk a ball you lost another bit of clothing until he’s standing there fully dressed and you are stark fucking naked. 

You’d missed, time and again, distracted by that raised eyebrow and that smirk and the pure sass of him, the mischief that strained his tightly-buttoned veneer. He used that clever mind of his to tease out what would throw your aim, what would lose you point after point (turns out a little openmouthed pout goes a long way, as does his soft two-fingered stroking of the cue). 

But anyway. 

He crowds you til you have to lean back on your elbows, til even that isn’t enough and you’re picking up friction burns as you slide back to make room, as he stalks you right up and onto the center of the table, boots leaving marks on the baize and _oh_ he’ll catch hell for that later but. This is unexpected, the way he’s kissing down your belly, thumbs dipping into the hollows of your hips, the way he licks and sucks at your navel in a promise of what’s coming, a promise that sends lightning straight into your center. 

“I claim my prize,” he says, and licks a long stripe up you, tongue flat and wet and so, so good. And he knows, the bastard, that he needs to give more, needs to deliver if he’s going to _satisfy_ , but he’s waiting to see what you’ll do; even in his victory he’s always watching and calculating. And what you do is this: you fist both hands into his curls and pull, dragging his mouth down onto you even as your hips leave the tabletop. 

That pulls a surprised groan from him, somewhere deep in his chest. It drives him to lift and part your thighs, to rock back onto his knees with his face buried in you and your shoulders barely touching the table, to eat at you with vigor. And he is lost in it, utterly abandoned in the taste and feel of you, in the ripple and roll of limbs as you keep grasping at his hair, balance abandoned and you _must_ be pulling strands from his scalp but he doesn’t slow, doesn’t waver in his relentless assault. 

He is a man possessed, he tells you, when you’ve shaken apart on his tongue, when he rubs his wet and glistening face side to side against your belly, when he opens his flies and presses inside you carefully, so carefully, now taking his time, slow and gentle like this isn’t the first time he’s been inside you. He is a man possessed, and he intends this to be the first time of many. It isn’t fair, isn’t fair to tell you this, to chase the _yes_ from your lips as he works you with hands and lips and cock all at once, but he tells you anyway. 

It’s the first time you tell him yes, but it’s hardly the last, in the end. And the pool table is ruined beyond repair, but there are so many other surfaces to defile in this house.


End file.
